


The rhythm of my footsteps crossing flatlands to your door (have been silenced forevermore)

by captain_trashmouth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Everything Hurts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Not Canon Compliant, Suicide, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_trashmouth/pseuds/captain_trashmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier awakens and makes his new mission to find Steve. He doesn’t find what he expected. There is not a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The rhythm of my footsteps crossing flatlands to your door (have been silenced forevermore)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If You're Reading This, Bucky Barnes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7195676) by [fallendarlings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallendarlings/pseuds/fallendarlings). 



> Title taken from Transatlanticism by Death Cab for Cutie  
> TW: Suicide, major character death  
> This is my first fic ever.  
> Inspired by "If You're Reading This, Bucky Barnes" by angstplums ugh you ruined my life

He dreams a lot when he is in stasis. He savors those few moments for himself, because they are the only escape he has from this shit stain of a life. He dreams of a boy, slight and delicate, with blond hair and eyes like a winter sky. That is his peace. The only solace he takes in this life is knowing that this person, whoever they are, loved him once.

_Steve_

Yeah, Steve. His name must be Steve. That’s what his brain tells him, that niggling voice in the back of his head that only talks during these quiet hours. Hours that stretch into days, months, years. Decades of silence. Lots of time to think, lots of time to dream. He remembers a phrase from somewhere, “If your heart is in your dream, then no request is too extreme.” He doesn’t know how he knows it, but it sticks in his mind.

That phrase, it starts to burn him. It lights a fire in him that he doesn’t remember ever being able to feel.

_Steve_

Yeah. Steve.

_Find him._

Yeah. We will.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He stands still as the technicians assemble his gear. He is biding his time. How much time will he bide? He can’t be sure, because they put him back into cryostasis after the mission. In this mission, he shoots a man in a black coat. A man with one eye. A man with more darkness to him than one could even imagine. He feels nothing.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Don’t forget Steve_

Yeah, I remember him.

It’s so fucking cold. He dreams of a wedding. He dreams of blood and snow and a mountain. He dreams of blond hair and blue eyes again. He dreams of a place that he can’t name, but it feels like home.

_Don’t forget_

Yeah.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He is briefed on his next mission. He is supposed to protect a helicarrier. He tells himself this is the last mission. Then he will find Steve. That is his new mission, come hell or high water.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wakes up, surrounded by technicians. He counts four of them in the room, armed with small caliber weapons. He waits until they get close, within arm’s reach. He snaps all of their necks, and doesn’t break a sweat. These people don’t matter to him. His new mission is more important.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He picks up a newspaper. The front page describes a funeral. He feels sick to his stomach.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He travels to a small cemetery in Brooklyn.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

A sob wracks his chest. To the outside observer, it may have sounded like a bitter laugh. He falls to his knees in the dirt at the foot of the grave. He can feel the memory start to take shape. There’s a train. There’s a mountain. There are pieces, but he can’t build the whole. The dirt is biting into the palm of his hand as he leans forward to support his weight the other traces the letters on a headstone.

“I finally found you, Steve. I came home, but you were already gone. You were here the whole time,” He says, speaking to the headstone. It bears an epitaph:

_Here lies Steven Grant Rogers_

_Beloved Friend, Brother, and Hero._

_Til the end of the line._

His vision blurs, and he feels like he’s going to be sick. He made it this far, he can’t embarrass himself in front of Steve by vomiting on his fucking grave. His left hand clutches his gut as the right comes up to cover his mouth. He reads the dates on the stone, and does the math. The date of death is the date of the helicarrier fight. He doesn’t know how he knows that, and he knows he shouldn’t remember. HYDRA would have made sure he didn’t remember. His flesh hand drops from his mouth, immediately going to the holster at his thigh. He works the gun out, and releases the safety.

“Steve, I…” His stomach wrenches, but nothing comes up. He’s empty anyway. “I am so fucking sorry.”

He pulls back the hammer, and turns it toward his face.

“Steve, I’ll see you soon, you know that right? Til the end of the line, buddy. You fucking punk, I’m so sorry. Steve, you have to know I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to do it. They made me do it. They fucking made me do it. Steve, I will burn in hell for a hundred thousand years, but I hope you know I’m sorry. I loved you. I dreamed of you.”

He raises the barrel of the pistol to his lips, “You remember that joke I told you when we were kids? Seems kind of appropriate now, don’t it?”

He exhales a ragged breath. “I asked you why there were fences around graveyards. Do you remember that joke?”

He doesn’t finish the punchline. He eases his finger to the trigger, and squeezes his eyes shut. He turns his back to the headstone, feeling guilty and ashamed that even now, he can’t face Steve. He wonders if Steve will ever forgive him. He almost laughs, it’s silly. To wonder if a dead man will ever forgive him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_“Hey Steve, why do they put fences around cemeteries?”_

_Eyebrows draw together, and his mouth quirks up on one side. Steve is thinking. He doesn’t know that Bucky is telling him a joke._

_“I don’t know, Buck. Why?”_

_“Because people are dying to get in, Steve.”_

_Steve sighs and rolls his eyes, but he smiles._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His teeth click against the barrel, and he pulls the trigger.


End file.
